


Catharsis

by LadyRhiyana



Series: Season 8 reaction ficlets [4]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Frantic post-battle sex, Porn with Feelings, Post battle of Winterfell, Season 8 episode 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 23:57:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18648742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRhiyana/pseuds/LadyRhiyana
Summary: They’re alive. They’re shaking with the sickening remnants of fear and adrenaline and when sleep finally finds them they’ll be wracked by nightmares and terror, and so they hold each other with bruising force.**[After the battle, Jaime and Brienne take each other to bed.]





	Catharsis

**Author's Note:**

> This is my immediate knee-jerk reaction to episode 3. It's not perfect but it reflects my feelings on that long and exhausting battle. It follows on from "Here and Now" but you don't need to have read that to understand. 
> 
> Essentially, this is frantic post-battle sex.

Afterwards, there’s little else to do but huddle together and count the cost.

Tormund is alive, and Gendry and the Unsullied leader Grey Worm. Podrick stands beside her, as he had stood beside her all through the battle. And Ser Jaime – 

Smoke-blackened, blood-spattered, his eyes are – exhausted. Remote. Staring into some searing cold, night-dark, flame-drenched hell. Stripped of his usual defences, his wry smile and his sardonic tongue, he looks – the most open and vulnerable she’s ever known him, save for the unreality of that steam-drifting interlude in the baths of Harrenhal. 

“We’re alive,” he says, his voice thin and hollow. 

He is swaying on his feet. There is no more strength in him, she realizes. He’d spent it all on the battlements. 

“Come on,” she says, drawing his arm around her, taking his weight. “It’s all over now. Let’s go and drink until we forget our own names.” 

** 

They go back to her chamber, arm in arm, still fully armoured and filthy. She guides him down to her bed, and finds a skin of wine and two cups – pressed together on her bed, they drink, staring into the fire. 

After a while, she realizes that he’s trembling. He’s drunk, she thinks. Drunk, defenceless and exhausted. He smells of blood and smoke and acrid terror. He’s warm and shivering and alive, and his eyes are desperate. 

She’s never sure afterwards who makes the first move; suddenly she’s on her back on her narrow, fur-draped bed, his weight heavy above her, his mouth crushed against hers. They curse and hiss as they wrestle each other out of their armour, and then finally she strips off her breeches and he’s fumbling at his laces and she wraps her legs around his waist, welcoming the blunt intrusion of his cock – 

She’s still sore from the night previous, from the first time he took her; still, it’s a sweet, aching pain and she welcomes it, welcomes his panting, gasping kisses, her fingers digging into to his sweat-slicked shoulders, welcomes the solid muscular weight of him holding her down. 

Last night he had been – if not gentle, then at least careful. Now he wraps his right arm around her waist and pulls her hard against him, braces himself and drives into her with a low, guttural groan. 

She throws back her head, arches beneath him, a gasping cry escaping her. 

They fuck in the ruins of Winterfell, lost to everything but brute physical sensation.

They’re alive. They’re shaking with the sickening remnants of fear and adrenaline and when sleep finally finds them they’ll be wracked by nightmares and terror, and so they hold each other with bruising force and they fuck, eyes fixed on each other’s and hands clasped, exchanging desperate, panting kisses. 

The bed creaks and groans beneath them – Jaime is a big man, and she is even bigger – and the dim light of the fire throws writhing shadows onto the dark stone walls. 

Unlike the first time, she doesn’t peak, not before he buries his face in her shoulder and groans, shaking as he spills his seed into her. He collapses onto her, warm and heavy, sweating and still shuddering. But after a long pause, as she feels his heartbeat finally slow and his gasping breathing return almost to normal, he turns his attention to her pleasure. 

It’s every bit as good as she remembers. She arches and thrashes under his hands and tongue, unashamed; he holds her down and grounds her, and when she finally returns to herself he wraps himself around her, murmuring slurred nonsense words into her skin. 

Finally, pressed together, they sleep, and wake to the dawn.


End file.
